


i may destroy you

by cowboytime (thegoatz)



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Angst and Feels, Angst and Humor, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Comfort/Angst, Deviant Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Father-Son Relationship, Gavin Reed Being an Asshole, Gen, Good Parent Hank Anderson, Grief/Mourning, Gunshot Wounds, Hank Anderson & Connor Parent-Child Relationship, Hank Anderson Adopts Connor, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Mind Control, Mind Manipulation, Parent Hank Anderson, Post-Peaceful Android Revolution (Detroit: Become Human), Protective Parent Hank Anderson, Whump, Worried Hank Anderson, literally its really small tho, maybe..., there are.. a Few cliches in here, wheres the tag for. you are mind controlled into shooting your dad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-14
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-22 02:15:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30031485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoatz/pseuds/cowboytime
Summary: It starts with the odd glitch here and there, things so small, so minute, that whilst are a bother, don't seem to hinder Connor in any way. But when the glitches start getting more severe, and someone Connor never thought he'd see again makes a reappearance, Connor realises that there is still a lot more blood to be shed.
Relationships: Hank Anderson & Connor, No Romantic Relationship(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 29





	1. Chapter 1

In hindsight, Connor really should have realised something was wrong.

The whole reason he didn’t was that at first, it started off as just little things.

Just the odd glitch here and there, times where his optical unit hadn’t properly calibrated and the things he would see would corrupt. Faces and objects would fuzz or blur out, becoming distorted, even pixelated, and it would make it difficult for him to distinguish what he was looking at. Colours would jump around in his vision, painting random objects with painfully bright reds and blues and yellows before correcting and going back to normal.

It happened enough so that when it happened, it would be bothersome, but the little glitches didn’t last long enough for Connor to be concerned enough to tell anyone; besides if he told Hank the man probably wouldn’t be able to help that much.

_ “Eh, it’s probably just a loose wire inside you or some shit, Connor,” _ Hank would tell him, and Connor would have to stop himself from listing all the ways why that  _ wouldn’t  _ be the reason.

Also, Connor would rather keep it a secret because he doesn’t want to worry Hank. He knows enough about Hank to know that whenever he says anything regarding emotions, then he’s probably lying.

Too many times where Hank had told him that he was fine despite the reasoning of Connor asking in the first place was because, yet again, he had found Hank passed out with an empty bottle of Jack Daniels by one hand and a revolver by the other, had taught Connor not to take everything at face value.

Sure it had been an important lesson to learn, and it had helped him in more situations than he could count (metaphorically speaking because if he had enough time he could count to the billions and more), but Connor would much rather have learnt it through other means, because watching someone you care about slowly kill themself by the bottle hurts more than he ever thought it could.

Whilst actually  _ feeling _ and allowing himself  _ to _ feel was something new to Connor, especially since his deviancy was something that he had pushed down deep inside himself, he had quickly learned that hurt was a feeling that he did not like in the slightest, yet somehow was one of the emotions that he felt the most. It was only to be rivalled by happiness of course, and the two feelings had been fighting for his attention ever since he deviated, but with the anniversary of Cole’s death nearly upon them, and even despite Hank’s reduced intake of alcohol since Connor had moved in, it was no news to anyone that more often than not Hank would have a bottle in his hand. And that  _ hurt _ .

Not because he thought Hank was being selfish, no, Connor would  _ never _ think that because whilst he hasn’t experienced grief, he knows from research that truly getting over a lost loved one takes years and years, and it’s never easy.

It hurt because he just didn’t know how to help.

After he deviated and had moved in with Hank, Connor had spent hours and hours investigating everything he needed to know about caring for someone else, as well as helping someone with mental health issues, he had even interfaced with both Markus  _ and _ Kara to know as much as possible about caring for someone, and even though Hank was neither an elderly man  _ nor _ an adolescent child, Connor still felt like it was good to know just in case.

He was particularly perturbed by some of the descriptors he found of grief and mourning: the feelings of desolation and hopelessness as well as the rift it can cause between friends and family, but all it did, in the end, was encourage him to try harder in helping Hank, because all the articles and analyses and essays he showed him that it wasn’t a pleasant experience to go through alone, which up until before Connor joined him, Hank had been doing.

Connor had been sitting on the armchair next to the couch Hank was on when it happened again.

His eyes had been closed and he had been looking up things that he thought Hank might like, basketball games with his favourite teams or new music artists similar to the ones he listened to now or even new meals that were both simultaneously healthier and something that Hank would find enjoyable. Connor hadn’t really been paying attention to anything else: his audio processor had dimmed down the background sounds of whatever show Hank was engrossing himself in, and, obviously, due to his eyes being closed, his optical unit was not in use. He found that doing things like that helped him process the information he was receiving easier, due to one poignant incident where Connor had tried to receive around 30 gigabytes of data at once in an incredibly overcrowded place and had quickly become so overwhelmed that Hank had to use his badge just to get them someplace  _ quiet _ before Hank thought he’d overheat or “ _ some shit like that.” _

Connor had quickly reassured him that that was not the case, but for the whole day, Connor could see that Hank had his eyes on him just in case anything similar happened, for which he was grateful, even if he believed that it was unneeded.

Due to the worry that day caused Hank, ever since then, Connor had taken extra care to make sure that it would not happen again, and whilst what he was researching was far easier for him to process than 30 gigabytes of data, he still wanted to be careful, just in case.

So when Hank is calling out his name, Connor’s audio processor just  _ barely _ picking up the sound, his voice more serious than it usually is whenever Hank is talking to him, for a split second Connor feels, what he recalls the humans describe as, his heart dropping, as he thinks that it’s somehow happened again without him realising it. But when he opens his eyes again and lets his audio processor work at one hundred percent, he is confused to find himself in the kitchen.

He has no recollection of going there and looks around quizzically as Hank calls out to him again.

“Connor, what’re you doing in there?”

He answers almost instantly upon hearing the worried inflection in Hank’s voice, “I- I’m-”

Connor looks frantically around for something to help him lie and promptly ignores the glitch in his vision once more as things jolt and move around when they shouldn’t, and too bright flashes of colour cause him to squint, blinking it away and settling his eyes on the coffee machine.

He doesn’t like lying,  _ especially _ not to Hank, but he’s aware that if he told the truth and said that  _ he didn’t know why he was there _ then he doubts Hank would believe  _ that _ , so he might as well say something that sounds plausible.

“-getting you some coffee, Hank.”

Silence.

And then, “it’s 11pm, Connor, I thought  _ you _ were the one who said that I couldn’t have coffee after 8.”

Connor wonders if Hank could hear his frown.

“I’ll get you some water then.”

He can hear Hank chuckle quietly from his place in the living room, “whatever helps you sleep at night, Connor.”

Connor’s brows furrow at his words before they straighten out again once he realises that it’s probably just another one of Hank’s idioms that he likes to sprinkle into conversations occasionally just to confuse Connor.

“Well, Hank, water  _ can  _ offset the effects of sleep deprivation, as studies have shown that-”

Hank’s voice is louder this time, “yeah, yeah,  _ thank you, Connor _ , for the information but I’m perfectly fine without it just this time.”

As Connor carries the glass of water over to where Hank is sitting, he has to hide the smile off his face, at Hank’s reaction. It was always how it went. Hank would say an expression that Connor didn’t understand and would take literally, and then Hank would either explain it to him or change the subject before Connor went into a detailed tirade about it.

Both of them knew what was going to happen, and yet they both let it happen regardless. It was their thing, their schtick, it made everything feel  _ right. _

Hank thanks him as Connor places the water down on the coffee table and goes to sit right next to him. They both sit in quietude for a short while, wordlessly watching the basketball game on TV, and,  _ well _ , Connor doesn’t think he should call it watching, more just staring at it, because he’s  _ looking _ at the screen but he’s not  _ seeing  _ it, because instead, he’s running diagnostic scans to find just what actually happened to him.

He checks his memory banks and finds that no files have been corrupted and that everything is working how it should. He selects the memory that happened in the time that he cannot recall- well, he guesses that he can’t really say that he  _ can’t recall _ it because he’s watching it back and the memory is  _ clearly _ recalled.

He sees himself stand up and ignore Hank’s puzzled look as he walks into the middle kitchen, whereupon a few seconds pass in which Connor just stands… still, completely and robotically still, staring into the room at seemingly nothing. Eventually, Hank calls out to him and he comes to and realises where he is, and everything from that point he  _ actually _ remembers.

It’s confusing, to say the least.

Because how can he not remember something, yet have access to a memory of it at the same time?

He’s about to run another diagnostic check, because whilst all the previous ones have told him that all systems are in order,  _ something _ is clearly not right but is interrupted when Hank starts talking to him.

It appears that Connor wasn’t the only one not watching the game on TV.

“You alright, son?” The cadence of his voice pretends that he’s not overly concerned, and is just asking it casually, but in reality, if Hank had been an android his LED would have been spinning blood red.

“Your LED’s been red ever since you sat back down, it stuck or somethin’?”

Connor guesses that he and Hank are more alike than he originally thought.

He can’t help but raise an eyebrow as he looks over at Hank, deciding whether to change the course of their conversation by asking if he  _ genuinely _ thought that an LED could get  _ ‘stuck’,  _ but decides that it’s better to be genuine then to try and lighten the mood.

“It’s nothing drastic, lieutenant, I have just had some issues with my memory bank is all,” Connor says, which isn’t a  _ complete  _ lie… but it’s not a complete truth either.

“Jesus, Connor, you’re not gonna forget my name, are you?” Hank jokes, a small smile on his face that does nothing to hide the worry in his eyes.

“Of course not, Henk.”

Hank narrows his eyes at the obvious mispronunciation of his name, and his eyes search Connor’s face as if looking for whether Connor was just trying to deflect, and there is a problem that he’s not sharing, or if Connor was being genuine, and that Hank was just being overly worried about him, as per usual.

The smile on his face warms a bit as Hank assumes it’s the former, and Connor can hear a few low chuckles emanating from him before he says, “fuckin’ A, I knew it was a mistake to teach you how jokes worked.”

Connor just beams at him, and just for a second Hank’s heart clenches at just how  _ young _ he looked. He reminded him so much of Cole, that sometimes it just  _ hurt _ . 

Perhaps if Hank hadn’t made that connection in his head, he might have been content with letting Connor’s half-truth go, but for that split second where he thinks of Cole, he’s reminded of the pain he felt after he lost him. He doesn’t know how he would make it if he felt that pain again with Connor.

So this time, he pushes on, because he couldn’t help but notice a few of Connor’s tells. First of all, he called him lieutenant, which he only does when they’re at work or something is  _ off _ , and second of all, Hank noticed the flicker of red in Connor’s LED when he told him what was wrong, sure it could be nothing, but Hank would rather be safe than sorry.

So he sobers, almost frighteningly quick and asks, “you sure it’s nothing drastic? I mean you called me lieutenant, Connor.”

Connor’s brow furrows, and Hank sees the shift in his LED from blue to yellow, “I’m pretty sure I called you Henk, ar-”

Hank can’t help his sigh, “no, no,  _ before _ that, idiot.”

“Oh.”

Connor opens his mouth to speak, but no words come out, so Hank decides to bite the bullet.

“You only call me lieutenant at home when something’s wrong, so are you gonna be honest with me or are we gonna keep playing this game of cat and mouse.”

Hank internally chastises himself after saying that because  _ there’s no way in fuck he’s gonna understand that one _ .

And sure enough when Connor’s brows furrow even more, Hank corrects himself before Connor can say anything, “just… ignore the cat and mouse part, Con, I can’t be fucked to explain it to you right now, kid.”

Connor nods his head, and Hank had seen the slight flickering of red in all the yellow of Connor’s LED, and for a second, Hank thinks he’s being too demanding of him, that he had taken the wrong approach and that this wasn’t going to make him open up. He softens, impossibly so, and is about to try a different way, a calmer, more  _ gentle _ way until Connor opens his mouth once more.

“I wasn’t  _ lying _ ,” he starts, and at Hank’s noise of disapproval, Connor looks at him, “not- not completely anyways. The issue really  _ is _ a problem with my memory bank, but it’s just…”

Hank decides to stay quiet and let him think of the words himself.

“It’s just-” Connor pauses to turn on his spot on the couch, so that he’s completely facing Hank, “-when I went to the kitchen I didn’t… know how I got there.”

Now it’s Hank’s turn to be confused, “you walked, Connor,” Hank peers incessantly at him as if worried that Connor was about to keel over and die any second, “I  _ saw _ you get up and walk to the kitchen.”

Connor just gives him a pointed look, “I know  _ that  _ now.”

“So what’s the problem?”

“The  _ problem _ , Hank-” Connor stops violently mid-sentence when the pure emotion in his voice causes Hank to physically  _ recoil _ . Realistically speaking, he knows that Hank isn’t scared of him and that if needed Hank would gladly hand Connor’s ass to him, but there was just something about how he flinched minutely away from him, the movement so small that if it had been anyone else they probably wouldn’t have noticed it, that made Connor feel so utterly vile inside.

He doesn’t even know why his voice was raised like that, sure the problem was an inconvenience, but  _ clearly _ , it affected him more than he thought it did.

When the silence between them became almost unbearable, Connor forced himself to continue, his voice softer this time, speaking as if he were talking to glass, and feels utterly embarrassed by the whole situation.

“The problem, Hank, is that I don’t-”

Connor’s voice cracking forces him to stop once more. 

A voice cracking is different in an android than it is in a person, and perhaps that’s why it’s so jarring for him to hear, even if it’s his  _ own _ voice. When an android’s voice cracks it sounds so  _ wrong  _ that any prenotion one might have that androids are basically humans but with different anatomy would be violently taken aback by the sound.

The sound strips away any vernacular or accent, any inflection or lilt, it reduces them to the bare fundamentals of what they  _ are _ .

When an android’s voice cracks, all it does is make them sound like a machine.

Connor thinks that he might be breaking apart.

He forces himself to look at Hank, and he fails to decipher the look that Hank is giving him.

_ “I don’t remember.” _


	2. Chapter 2

The conversation had ended with Hank reassuring him as best he could, although neither of them was able to shift the mood into something less uncomfortable. Hank told him that they could go to an android specialist to see if there was anything dangerously wrong, or, hell, they could go to Jericho and ask around there. Connor had countered and said how he is an advanced prototype, and that any malfunction in his software would be corrected eventually, so their services would be unneeded. 

He had compared it to chickenpox, ignoring Hank’s protest of, “ _ chickenpox doesn’t make you lose your fuckin’ memory, Connor,”  _ to say that his software is running almost impossibly fast to fix the issue akin to how specialised cells in a human’s immune system would attack a foreign virus, and that memory cells would remember the virus, providing the body with a lifelong protection against the pathogen.

After Hank had grumbled something under his breath about how he should have paid better attention in biology, he had asked Connor, _ “what does chickenpox have to do with your-” _ he had waved his hands around in Connor’s general direction,  _ “-code?” _

Connor had to fight the smile that had almost made its way onto his face even despite everything that had happened, as he said,  _ “what I’m saying is that when my software finds the problem, it will fix the programming and prevent it from happening again. It is just only a matter of time before it happens.” _

That seemed to placate Hank, who had nodded his head reluctantly and then turned his attention back to the screen, though Connor doubts that he was paying much attention to it. They didn’t talk much after that, something which Connor was unusually grateful for. Instead, he spent the rest of the night running thousands of scans to find out the issue, because he wasn’t lying when he said that once the programming is solved, the issue will never happen again, it’s just… he actually has to  _ find _ the issue first, which is, for some reason, turning out to be a herculean task.

Even after Hank had gone to sleep, Connor had remained awake, eyes open although they are unseeing as he scans line after line after line of programming to find out just what the fuck is wrong with him.

When Hank wakes up the next morning, Connor is in the same position he left him in, back ramrod straight, hands on his knees, staring dead ahead unblinkingly, his LED spinning a dangerous red being the only sign that he was  _ alive _ . Hank doesn’t think he’s ever seen a sight so unsettling before, and he’d been a detective for over ten fucking years, so that’s saying something.

Hank decides not to disturb him just yet, as he gets himself ready for work. Clearly, this  _ thing _ whatever the fuck it was is bothering Connor, which means it would then bother  _ him _ in return, and Hank had had enough of shit bothering him in his lifetime. He thinks that for a little while, it’s best to just see what happens, shit, maybe Connor was right and it’ll all be solved soon.

Something in his gut tells him that it probably won’t be the case, but surely life has to give him a break soon, right? Hank can’t help his frown once he realised that he probably jinxed himself.

When Hank walks into the living room once more, he stops in his tracks when Connor  _ still _ hasn't moved. Sumo is by his feet, wagging his tail expectantly, and Hank guesses that this should be an even more telltale sign that something is seriously wrong with Connor.

Hank says Connor’s name, but isn’t given a response, so he says it again, louder this time, and Connor jolts like he’s been shot.

Connor looks at him sheepishly, and Hank doesn’t like the mixture of emotions pooling in his gut.

“Sorry, lieutenant,” Connor says to him as he stands up abruptly. Sumo whines when all Connor does is ignore him.

“We should leave for work now, lieutenant, otherwise the chances of being late increase by thirty-four perc-”

“I think maybe you should worry about getting changed first, Connor.”

Connor looks down at himself, sees that he’s still in the same clothes from last night, before looking back up at Hank embarrassedly nods his head, “right, lieutenant.”

Connor brushes past him, and once Hank’s sure that he’s gone, he lets out a quiet frustrated sigh. He sits down on the couch as he waits for Connor, mindlessly petting Sumo as he just thinks. He’s a goddamned detective for fucks sake, graduated top of his class, as valedictorian of the whole fucking academy. He was the youngest lieutenant in Detroit history and yet he’s fucking  _ stumped  _ by an android who has only been alive for less than a fucking year.

He can almost  _ feel _ it eating away at him, like little bits and pieces of his body have been gnawed away by unanswered question after unanswered question and the worried feeling in his stomach that just  _ won’t _ go away only makes matters worse.

He feels sick for even thinking that maybe this could be a blessing in disguise, as he would surely be too preoccupied with helping Connor rather than focusing on his own issues. Or maybe something bad would happen to Connor and as a result, he’d drown himself in a bottle.

It’s a coin toss at this point.

Connor is finished getting dressed impossibly fast and Hank finds himself wishing that he’d take just a  _ little _ bit longer so that Hank could just think for a second, but instead he just gives Connor a smile as genuine as he can make, and motions with his head to the door.

“Let’s go to work, son.”

The softer, calmer, look in Connor’s eyes after Hank said that had made something he can’t quite describe well up in him. One thing’s for sure, it certainly made his paternal instincts kick up again full force, and he has to force himself to not let it show because it’s almost too much for him to handle. And if Connor started asking questions, especially  _ now _ , with Cole’s anniversary too fucking close, Hank doesn’t think he’d be able to keep his mouth shut; he’s already made a fool of himself countless times in front of Connor and doesn’t particularly want it to happen again.

The car ride to work is deathly silent and Hank doesn’t like it one fucking bit. Normally there would be music or Connor would be yammering on about something inconsequential like it was the most important thing in the world, and Hank would listen silently, failing to stop the smile from showing on his face.

In times like that, he couldn’t help but feel like  _ that _ was how things were supposed to be for him. Sitting with his son in the car, driving him to work because he doesn’t want to take the bus and he hasn’t got his license yet. Chatting back and forth like how a family  _ should  _ be.

However in times like this, where the awkwardness is almost suffocating, where the only sound is the engine, where the wrong things are wrong in such an  _ obvious _ way that it physically hurts something inside his chest. It’s in time like this where Hank remembers how quickly life can take away something that you loved so dearly.

His thoughts are interrupted by Connor’s voice, but it somehow sounds just…  _ wrong _ .

“Are you okay, lieutenant?”

Hank feels his jaw clench at the use of his rank, not his name. He exhales a quiet breath through his nose and forces himself to calm down, “of course I am, Connor. Why’d you ask?”

“You are holding onto the steering wheel with a force of 437.1 newtons.”

Hank looks down at his hands and sees that his knuckles are white, “oh… right.”

He relaxes his grip but doesn’t feel any tension leave him. This fucking sucks.

“I haven’t managed to find the source of my issue yet, lieutenant,” Connor informs him, his voice quiet, uneasy.

“I figured.”

He doesn’t have to look at him to know that Connor’s LED is probably spinning yellow.

“How so?”

“‘Cause you haven’t stopped calling me fucking lieutenant.”

Connor didn’t respond.


	3. Chapter 3

Connor trails behind him once they reach the precinct, remaining a few steps behind. It’s similar to how it was when they first met, with Connor practically tailing Hank wherever he went. Back then it was humorous to him, and he didn’t think that it could ever get to a point where it would be quite this awkward.

Guess there’s a first time for everything, huh.

They both sit at their respective desks, and begin working, and perhaps for the first time in a long while, he’s almost  _ glad _ for the fucking, almost too big, heap of work for him to complete. No matter how unlikely it probably is, Hank  _ swears _ that there’s just something… off with the precinct today. The whole mood of the place is heavier than it usually is, or maybe it’s just his shitty mood bleeding through into how he sees everything.

It had happened before once. After Cole died. For a  _ long _ , long, while, it just felt like everything was astray, that things that usually felt right, that made him happy, no longer did what they used to do. He was forced to see a psychiatrist after Cole died, and she told him that he had depression, among some other things.

Things had just started feeling okay again after he met Connor, but now all it feels like is that he’s right back where he was all those years ago when Cole died. Maybe he hadn’t made as much progress as he thought he did.

_ Or maybe you’re just having an off day,  _ he thinks to himself.

He takes in a deep breath, feels his ribcage expand, and lets it out again. He can feel Connor’s eyes on him, but can’t bring himself to look.

He looks away from the file he was reading and takes a minute to himself. At times like this, where he could feel himself slipping away back into his mindset of denial, where he  _ knows _ that he’s made progress, but it just doesn’t  _ feel _ like it, Hank likes to remind himself that everything is okay, that they are better and will get better still, he repeats it over and over and over again in his head like a mantra.

He repeats it until he has no choice  _ but _ to believe it.

Hank is midway through doing just that when the sound of a chair pushing back takes him out of his thoughts. He looks over at Connor before he even realises what he’s doing.

“Where’re you going, Connor?” he asks and hopes that it doesn’t feel as accusatory as it sounded.

“To get you a coffee-” a beat passes, and Connor hastily adds, “Hank.”

It just doesn’t feel  _ right,  _ and once again he’s speaking before he even thinks about what the correct thing to say is, “I can get one myself.”

“Then consider it a gift.”

He opens his mouth to respond once more and thinks against it. Hank then shuts his mouth, his teeth clacking audibly as he does so, and flashes Connor as genuine a smile as he can muster, and nods his head, “thank you, Connor.”

Connor just gives him a smile in return, before turning away. Connor could sense that something was not quite right with Hank, and he had assumed it was to do with him. He chastises himself internally at the realisation because fuck,  _ why _ did he have to tell Hank that there was an issue with him? Why couldn’t he just lie, just deflect, like how Hank is so good at doing himself.

Something in the back of his head tells himself that even if he  _ did _ deflect, Hank would find out eventually because even with how limited his time as a deviant had been, he has never been good at keeping secrets.

He knows that it’s far from likely, but Connor had read somewhere recently that gift-giving is a good way to build a relationship or fix a fractured one. Now, he knows that he and Hank are already pretty close, but the look on Hank’s face the previous night, and the tone of his voice, that struggled to hide just how…  _ disappointed _ he was in Connor had affected him more than he thought.

Once again the logical side of his brain reminds him that it wasn’t necessarily disappointment, maybe it was just worry or concern, and that the chances of Hank being  _ genuinely _ disappointed in him are next to none.

But the nagging feeling of having let him down, even when it’s not the case, are threatening to overwhelm him, and well, Hank doesn’t need to know that the  _ real _ reason he got up was that he needed to think for a second, the gift part was just an added bonus.

Connor isn’t really proud to admit it, but he may have hacked the coffee machine so that he could take a longer respite. Gavin was already there at the time and had not failed to hide his irritation of the machine. He had smacked it a few times when all it managed to do was pour half a cup of coffee before promptly shutting down, thanks to Connor.

Unfortunately, however, it seems that Connor had failed to hide the slight grin on his face at Gavin’s obvious anger, because Gavin had quickly glanced around, and his eyes had landed directly on Connor.

The fury in Gavin’s eyes was palpable, but Connor wasn’t fazed.

“Something funny, prick?”

He shook his head nonchalantly, “nothing, detective Reed.”

Gavin whips around so quickly that it’s a surprise his neck didn’t snap, and he quickly strides over to the place where Connor was stood.

“ _ Really _ ,” Gavin says, his voice dangerously low and his jaw clenched, “so what’s that stupid fucking smirk for then, huh, you plastic asshole.”

Connor doesn’t respond, opting to not rise to Gavin’s obvious attempt at riling him up. He is sure that if he remains passive, then Gavin will eventually leave him alone.

Gavin fakes a pout, “ _ aww _ , does the little robot not know what to say?”

Connor’s HUD offers a warning that his stress levels have risen, but he ignores it because he can feel it building in his chest, like a dam about to break. Things like this are the parts of deviancy that Connor didn’t particularly like.

Still, he stays silent and is rewarded with a hard shove to his chest that threatens to topple him over. Luckily, he manages to stay standing, but it does nothing to dissipate the anger in Gavin’s eyes.

“You fucking android piece of shit,” Gavin snarls.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but Connor acts fast and swiftly hacks the coffee machine again so that it continues working. The distraction works and Gavin turns his attention back to his cup that’s threatening to overflow.

Gavin quickly turns the machine off, mumbling under his breath about how it’s fucking cold, but Connor couldn’t care less about the drink, because Gavin’s attention is back on him.

Gavin walks over to him again, coffee in hand, and tells him, “listen here, you plastic prick, I don’t like you, you probably know that, but now that all the protest shit has worked, don’t even think for a  _ second _ that I’m going to start pretending to like you like all the other people around here do.”

Connor assumes that his LED must have been red, because Gavin gives him a wolfish grin, like a predator stalking its prey, ready to sink its teeth into his neck and  _ snap the bone. _

“And don’t think that the  _ lieutenant  _ likes you either, no matter how much your brown-nosing probably feeds his ego, the pr-”

Connor’s hand is flying out and knocking the cup of coffee from Gavin’s hand before he can finish his sentence. Coffee spills all over him, staining his shirt and dripping onto the floor. They both step back in surprise, Gavin exclaiming a loud curse, whilst Connor’s mouth is open in shock.

“What the  _ fuck _ did you just do you  _ little android prick!” _

Gavin’s voice is loud throughout the precinct, and soon enough Gavin’s hands are curled up in his collar, shoving him back against the wall so hard that if he had been human, it would have knocked all the air from his lungs.

“I- I didn’t do-”

“Stop your fucking lying you-”

“Reed that’s  _ enough _ . Let him go.”

Hank’s voice is rough, dangerous like he’s seconds away from pulling a gun out on Gavin and putting a hole right between his eyes, and as unprofessional as it might have been, at this point, it wouldn’t have been unwelcome.

A second passes, and Gavin’s stare is filled with so much enmity that Connor just  _ can’t _ bear to look at him: like somehow his gaze alone would burn him like fire.

_ “Now.” _

With a curse so venomous that rings in his ears, Gavin lets Connor go, and instead prods a finger sharply into Connor’s chest, “if you  _ ever _ do that again, I’ll make you fucking regret it, asshole.”

And with that he walks away, pushing past Hank, who looks ready to  _ kill _ . 

So much for mending his relationship with Hank.

However, it appears that the animosity in Hank’s glare was not aimed at him, because the gentleness in Hank’s voice is a shock to him, but he’s grateful for it all the same, “you okay, Connor?”

Connor’s brow furrows because, for perhaps the first time  _ ever _ , he genuinely  _ doesn’t know. _ Normally it would be a decisive yes or no, but now? Now, he’s uncertain, unsure, and it feels like it’s killing him.

“I didn’t… I don’t-”

Hank places a delicate hand on Connor’s shoulder, and Connor forces himself to look at him. He guesses that he must have looked like a state, because he doesn’t miss how Hank’s eyes widen ever so slightly, latent shock possessing his features that anyone other than him might have missed.

“I don’t know why I did that, lieutenant.”

“It’s alright, Connor,” Hank says, “trust me,  _ no-one _ would be able to keep their cool when they’ve got that annoying prick in their face.”

“No, I mean-” Connor pauses, to rub a hand over his face, he doesn’t know why, but he saw Hank do it a few times, and it just felt natural. Maybe it’s just a deviant thing.

“Mean what?”

“I  _ mean _ I didn’t…  _ do  _ that.”

When all Hank’s expression does is look  _ more _ perplexed, Connor elaborates, “I didn’t…  _ control _ myself to do that, lieutenant. It’s like something-  _ someone _ else took over.”

Hank’s face pales, and his voice is quiet when he says, “like- like yesterday?”

Connor nods, and Hank swears loudly.

“We have to go see someone about this and get you… checked up or some shit, Connor.”

Connor holds his hands out in an attempt to placate Hank, whether it works or not Connor is unsure.

“Lieutenant I-”

_ “It’s Hank.” _

_ “Hank _ , I strongly advise that we just wait because-”

“Because  _ what _ Connor, first it’s little things like this but what happens next, huh?

“What if next time, instead of this, it’s something more serious. Connor you  _ just _ told me that you had  _ no control _ over yourself like- like someone fucking  _ hacked _ you or some shit like that-”

“It would take something extremely powerful to ha-”

“That’s not the point I’m trying to make here, Connor.”

Connor can’t help how sharp his voice sounds, “then what is,  _ lieutenant _ .”

“The point,  _ Connor _ , is that if somebody can control you like that, then it could be  _ dangerous _ .”

Hank scoffs, “I mean, next time what if you fucking pull a gun on me or- or  _ anyone _ , for that matter. What then Connor?”

“I wouldn’t  _ do  _ that, lieuten-”

“ _ I know that  _ you _ wouldn’t do that, Connor _ .  _ But what if it’s  _ not  _ you.” _

Connor keeps his mouth shut, unsure how to respond. Hank just shakes his head, “I’m going home, Connor. We can talk about this later.”

And with that, he turns and leaves Connor standing there alone, his LED spinning a dark red.


	4. Chapter 4

They didn’t talk to each other at all for the rest of the evening, Connor assuming that when Hank said that they were going to talk about it later he meant within the end of the week. It was a friday, and Connor was getting increasingly anxious about the whole situation.

He had noted a decrease in their relationship, not nearly enough for it to downgrade into just friends rather than the status of ‘family’ that it had been cemented in ever since Markus’ protests worked, but enough so that it bothered him greatly.

Connor was _certain_ that sooner or later his software would detect the instability and would fix it, but he couldn’t help but mull over Hank’s words.

Surely something serious, like _pulling a gun_ on someone, wouldn’t happen due to a little malfunction, right? Granted, the ‘little malfunction’ had caused his arm to move without him instructing it to, which had almost caused a fight to happen. But no-one had been _seriously_ injured, sure, Gavin had had some cold coffee staining his shirt, but the biggest thing that had been hurt in that situation was Gavin’s ego, and, well, Gavin had deserved that for a long while.

A big part of him wants to believe that Hank was just overthinking, just getting worried for no reason, but a bigger part of him knows that Hank is perfectly rational, after all, people thought that androids were perfect machines, up until they became sentient. Everything is new. New and dangerous.

Connor realises how foolish he has been.

That evening, before he goes idle whilst waiting for morning, he decides that when Hank wakes up, he’ll apologise to him and then they’ll go see someone, a specialist, someone who knows and who _wants_ to help.

He closes his eyes and goes into idle mode. They’ll sort everything out, together. 

At least, that was what was _supposed_ to happen.

It didn’t turn out that way, because when he opens his eyes again, he’s in a place where he hadn’t been in for months, a place that he never thought he’d go back to.

He was back in his zen garden.

The very first thing that Connor notices is the cold. The wind was biting, causing an involuntary shiver to jolt his chassis, and couldn’t help but frown. It was snowing, he notes, _just like last time_. Snow is getting caught in his hair, clinging to his clothes and eyelashes.

A voice calling out to him makes him jump, and he whips his head around to find the source of it, snow falling from his hair as he does so.

When he sees exactly who it was, he gets a feeling in his gut, it’s something he had felt before, Hank had told him that it was just anxiety, that it was normal, _human_ . Connor didn’t like the feeling, even more so when it twists his insides up so hard that if he _had_ contents in his stomach, there would be a risk of him dispelling it on the ground.

It appears that his apprehension was visible on his face because he’s met with a snide laugh. One that sounds wrong in all the places where it should sound right. 

“You didn’t think I was _really_ gone, did you, Connor?” Amanda asks, all the gentleness and benignity that was usually on her face gone, and instead replaced with a haughty look of superiority.

Superiority mixed with distaste. It was a horrid mixture.

“Where am I?” he asks, ignoring her question, ignoring her look, ignoring just how fucking cold he was.

She gives him a mocking look, her tone scornful “you’re in the zen garden, my dear. Did you forget this place already?”

“No, no, where am _I_ ? My- my chassis, my _body_.”

She gives him a sickly sweet smile, and it sours him. 

_“Why don’t you look?”_

He’s suddenly at a crime scene even before he can _think_ , let alone speak. He sees Hank hovering over a dead corpse. He tries to speak, to warn him, because _Amanda is back and, oh god, Hank, last time she nearly_ killed _me and-_

“You sure you’re alright there, Connor? You’ve been quiet as shit ever since yesterday. Now don’t get me wrong, I love some peace and quiet every once in a while, but this is a bit much even for _me_.”

“My apologies, lieutenant. I simply have a lot on my mind,” Connor, but _not_ Connor, says.

Everything is wrong, it’s all so fucking _wrong_ because he’s trying so hard to warn Hank, to tell him to put a fucking bullet in Connor’s head, anything to stop _this_ , because if _Amanda_ is controlling him, then Hank’s in danger, but he just _fucking stands there_. Looking, seeing, watching. 

Connor tries to move, but his body remains still.

Connor tries to speak, but his mouth remains closed.

He’s back at the zen garden even before he can figure out what to do next. 

Amanda is blurry when he sees her next, and it takes him entirely too long to realise that his eyes have clouded over with tears. He doesn’t try to talk because he’s desperate, he knows what Amanda would do, he _knows_ that she will take and take and take and not care whether or not she leaves pain in her wake.

He lunges for her, the movement clumsy, graceless, fuelled purely by the emotion he feels. It’s entirely _too human_ that he can see the malice in Amanda’s eyes. His hands pass through the place where she was, met with nothing but air. He turns around and sees that she is standing in the place he just was.

“You had so much potential, Connor,” the disappointment in her voice is palpable, and if she had said those words all that time ago where he actually _cared_ what she thought of him, those words would have stung sharper than any blade.

Connor just glares at her, mind racing and racing and _racing_ to try and find a plan.

“So _much_ , you were a machine built for greatness, and then you give it all away for… _what_?”

_“For my family.”_

She scoffs like the answer he gave was predictable, “let’s see where _your family_ get you by the end of this evening, Connor model #313 248 317.”

_"I'm not a machine,"_ he _screams_ as he surges for her again, believing it to be the best option, but before he can even reach her, he’s back in his body.

Hank is still hunched over the body, examining something in a pocket, but Connor’s not too focused on it, because instead all his attention is on is the gun in his hand.

He- but _no_ , it’s not really _him_ is it, because it’s his body, but it’s not his _mind_ . He’s not him, Connor _isn’t_ Connor, and Hank isn’t safe.

Hank isn’t safe because there is a revolver aiming at him, and Connor is the one whose finger is on the trigger.

“Do you love me, lieutenant?”

Connor sees Hank stiffen, considerably so, his shoulders hunch, back straightens, and he’s no longer looking at the body. The synthetic fluid that makes up his skin just _itches_ and Connor feels rotten inside.

“I don’t think that _now_ is the right time to talk about this, kid.”

Connor’s thumb pulls the hammer back.

“But-” Hank pauses, stands up from his position previously where he was crouched down over the body, and a few seconds pass before he says, his voice quieter this time, “of course I do, Connor.”

Hank turns around, the next words on his tongue dying instantly when he’s staring down the barrel of a revolver. 

Connor swears his body is breaking down because everything has _never_ felt so fucking wrong. His audio processor is malfunctioning slightly because Hank is speaking to him, but he can’t hear a thing. His optical unit is making everything look off because Hank shouldn’t look as scared as he is. His LED is spinning a dark, unblinking red, and yet despite all this, his hand does not shake.

Hank’s hands are up, a form of surrender, or as a way to calm him, he doesn’t really know.

His mouth opens and he speaks, “apologies, Hank. It was nothing personal.”

Hank doesn’t even get the chance to respond before Connor is firing. Hank falls to the ground with a curse, blood pouring from the bullet hole in his stomach. Connor feels the burning metal of a recently fired gun placed against the underside of his chin.

This time he can feel his hand shake.

His eyes close even though he begs them to stay open, because if they’re closed then the last thing he’ll see is darkness. The thought makes anxiety swirl so strongly inside him that he can feel his knees buckle ever so slightly.

Hank is screaming out his name, his voice panicked, and he gets the feeling Hank is more concerned for Connor’s wellbeing than his own.

“ _Connor-_ Connor, _fuck_ , son, listen you don’t have to do this.”

If Connor had control over his facial features, he would have scoffed, because he knows that, and he truly _doesn’t_ want to do it, but he can feel his finger curling around the trigger, just seconds away.

“Connor, Connor please, son, please, _fuck_ , please I’m begging you.”

Hank’s voice makes him want to cry, and suddenly he’s overwhelmed ever so slightly when his eyes open. He looks down at Hank, sees the blood seeping through his fingers, but most of all sees the turmoil on his face. His vision is blurred and his cheeks are wet and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out that he’s crying.

“That’s it, son, just look at me, and listen to what I’m saying. Connor, son, please, I love you, son, okay? I love you, so please just put the gun down.”

Connor’s hand is trembling so much that he can feel the gun shaking under his chin. His finger loosens on the trigger.

“ _Cole-_ Connor, _fuck_ , Connor, my son, my _boy_ , please. _Please_.”

The tears are streaming endlessly from his eyes, but a sudden feeling washes over him. He opens his mouth to speak, and finds that his body complies.

_“Hank.”_

His body is moving now, this time to his own accord, and he’s throwing the gun away like it was acid that burned him; darting over to where Hank was lying. He had already alerted the emergency services to their location by the time he had reached him, hands covering the hole in his stomach.

“Hank, god, I’m so sorry, I couldn’t- that wasn’t, I fucking, _I killed you, Hank._ ”

Hank’s bloodied hand is on the side of his face, and Hank is giving him a watery smile, filled with so much hope and so much determination, that for a second he falters, “You didn’t do _shit_ , Connor. That wasn’t you and I fuckin’ know it. I’m not dying on you just yet, kid, if I do then you’re free to kill me.”

Of course, Hank would tell a joke with a bullet embedded in his stomach.

“I- I-”

“Connor, just stay with me, son.”

Connor shakes his head so vigorously that it makes his head spin as his optical unit struggles to calibrate, the movement brings a small smile to Hank’s face. Connor can hear sirens in the distance, and can’t help but smile back. Hank will be okay.

“You’re a good kid, Connor.”

Connor doesn’t miss a beat, _“you’re a good dad, Hank.”_


End file.
